A good lesson in my life

If at first it appeared to be a wasted day and a bad decision, it ultimately turned out to be one of the best travel days I have ever had, and a excellent example of how you should never let small amounts of money deter you from doing what you want to do in life, because in the end you never remember the money you spent, but you always remember the events the money brought to your life.

When I made the original reservations, our flight was to have left Panama City at 4p.m. and stop in San Salvador on its way to our final destination San Francisco. I then noticed on the computer that there was a flight leaving Panama City at 6 a.m. which would leave us with 10 hours in Salvador and catching the same plane from there to SF. It seemed like a free day and an opportunity to see something which was not part of our schedule. So, after discussion with Carol, I booked the flight with the 10 hours layover in San Salvador. On the way down we also stopped in San Salvador, and knowing that I had the long layover on the return, I made sure that we could leave the airport on our return and venture out into the city. We were assured that since we would be in transit on our way home we wouldn't have to pay the airport tax. However.....When we got to the airport in San Salvador on our return we were informed that if we left the airport we would have to pay $25 apiece for the airport tax, and a $10 visa fee to enter the country. That meant $70 for ten hours and seemed not worth it. But we had planned to spend the time in the city, and the idea of spending 10 hours in the airport didn't particularly appeal to me, so we bit the bullet and paid the fees. Since it was raining we decided rather than head to the beach, we'd catch the $.60 collectivo and ride to town. A woman was walking behind us
and we asked her where we caught the bus. She told us that she too was going to take it, and to follow her. At the corner, we waited until the collectivo screamed around the corner and came squealing to a halt. Since it was totally full, we knew we'd have to wait for the next one, but
nothing is ever full in the land of the collectivo. Everybody just squeezes a little more and the 23 of us in a VW bus headed into town. Thirty minutes later, with all parts numbed by the lack of movement, we tumbled out and found ourselves in the middle of San Salvador on a Sunday
morning.

It's impossible to describe the visual and audio picture. I wish that I had a microphone to capture the sounds. It's somewhere between cacophony and harmony. The crowded streets are a rumble of sounds: bus engine roaring, hawkers selling anything and everything, ticket takers on the buses hollering out the destinations, and thousands of people talking, all trying to be heard with the general din of all the sounds.

After walking the streets for a few hours just soaking up the general scene. We ducked into a Salvadoran version of a fast food place for a quick bite, since all the "restaurants" seemed questionable from a sanitation standpoint. Pollo Campero, or country chicken was an easy winner over burger king. Fast-food places in poorer countries are an interesting contrast to American Fast food places. First of all, only middle class Salvadorans eat there, since prices are higher than the street food. The uniforms worn by the workers are worn with pride, not embarrassment as in the states. The workers are of a higher educational level than the general public just opposite of those working here by and large. There is a high degree of cheerfulness and the workers clearly enjoy their work, instead of the attitude of many who work here. We were well taken care of by a young Salvadoran girl, who had the most trusted and prestigious job of all, that of cashier. she had a smile nearly as big as her five foot tall, thin frame. She couldn't help us enough, from getting good directions on where to catch the bus to go to the zoo, our next directions, to where we should go after that. She wanted us to visit her hometown a few miles away, since it was so special in her mind. She was really sweet and her general warmth just made eating at a fast-food place a really enjoyable experience.

After three near collisions between our bus and another bus, a car, and a truck respectively, we made it to the zoo and watched people more than the animals. Sunday is family day in Hispanic countries and it's great to see all classes of people enjoying something in common. Since we were the only Gringos we saw all day, we were watched as much as we were observers, but always with friendly curiosity.

It was now two in the afternoon and Carol wanted to be back at the airport by four. We were both getting tired and she didn't want to wait till the last second and stress about getting there. I read in the tour book about a lake which was supposed to be pretty and was in the general direction as the airport, so we'd be close after seeing the lake. We made it to the lake an hour later after our $.15 bus ride and discovered that the airport was only a small one and in totally the opposite direction from the international airport. We then weighed our options with me on the side of
retracing our steps by bus and catching another collectivo back to the airport, and Carol opting for catching a cab and doing it all in one ride.

We asked one cab driver, but he wanted $25 and I told Carol that I didn't want to pay that much, and so we walked to catch the bus. As we waited, another taxi came by and we asked how much he would charge to go to the airport. Again we were told $25, again I said “no,” and he countered with $20. I looked at Carol and was given that look of: "I really want to get to the airport!" So we agreed and we got into the taxi. It was at that moment and for the next 40 minutes that everything came together and created one of the most riveting moments in my travels. We sat in the back seat and surveyed the scene inside the taxi. In the front seat there was the "Taxista" a young man of probably 25. Beside him was his wife of maybe 18 and their 4 month-old baby. The taxi was a jumble of masking tape, wire, cardboard, and loose upholstery. It looked like that
scene out of "Apollo 13," where they dumped everything out on the table and announced that they had to create the filter. But in this case they dumped a bunch of junk out on the table and announced: "Okay, now we have to hold this taxi together." The taxi moved better at higher speeds, because when we slowed down for lights the extent to which the wheels were out of alignment was much more pronounced. The muffler was such that you knew at one time it must have been one but the noise now told you that it did no practical good. The black exhaust that emitted from the back of the taxi looked like Professor Fate's car in the "Great Race." Ah, but the radio worked. How I don't know, because it dangled there by wire, and play it did. He tried vainly to find a station that played "Gringo Music," to help placate his fares in the back seat. You had to be careful how you sat because the springs in the seat protruded at very dangerous angles. But as we traveled to the airport this surrealistic scene became one of beauty and understanding. The sweet smile on the face of the girl as she patted her baby asleep on her lap as mothers down through the millennia have done, the tender looks that passed between husband and wife over things which we couldn't hear in the back seat, and the frankness with
which they talked about their lives were very touching.
These were simply two kids trying to eke out a living as best they could. It was Sunday, the family day, and yet they had to try to make a buck or two. So the only logical solution was for the three of them to spend the day combining both needs, being together riding around in the taxi looking for fares. They told us about the war and their experiences. They were glad that the war in El Salvador was over, but now, they said, gangs ruled the streets and it was more dangerous for the average citizen than ever before. Because of the distance to the airport we had to stop for gas. She reached up under her blouse (safer there, she said) and pulled out some money. We pulled into the gas station, he looked at the price of gas, and we pulled out looking for another station. He bought $4 worth of gas, that was all they could manage, and we pulled out, wobbling from side to side in a noisy, cloud of exhaust.

I sat there in the back seat ashamed that I had bargained my way down to save $5 when I had blown twice that much the night before on the turning of two cards in a game of blackjack at the casino in Panama City. Why was I trying to do this to these two kids without any semblance of certainty in their lives, struggling to make a life for themselves and their baby. They were not bitter or unpleasant about their situation. This was their lot in life, and they were making the best of it. He wasn't blowing his profits on cigarettes, and there wasn't a hint of machismo in his actions to her. They were not in rags, but their clothes were not the best. The baby, however, had a nice, clean jumper on and knitted red booties. Their priorities were definitely in place. I wish that I could have felt the same about mine.

We passed squalid villages and huts and wondered what kind of house they lived in. I counted my money in the back seat, a combination of US dollars and Salvadoran Colones, and I asked Carol if she had a $10 bill. She handed it to me and said, quietly: "Give him a good tip." I nodded in
acknowledgement. We were of the same mind. I knew that I was going to give him the original asking price of $25. In fact, it worked out to be about $28 with the $20 US and the rest of my colones.

When we got to the airport, I gave him the money and told him that the extra was a propina, a tip, and then I looked at her and asked her if she would do me a favor. She nodded, and I gave her a $10 bill. I asked her if she would buy the baby a gift, a present from the "Gringos." Her eyes
filled with tears and she said yes of course. I have no doubt that the money went to the baby, and for no other purpose.

In El Salvador, in contrast to the other countries of this visit, we encountered a lot of begging. I always have difficulty with that. I've explained before that I don't know who needs it and who simply wants it and I can't give to everybody who asks for money. I can't make a big
difference in the world, but here I had the opportunity to make a small difference for one day only to someone who I knew needed it and
appreciated it. These two kids have entered that inner sanctum where I keep my most treasured travel memories. Like the woman in Cuernavaca selling tomatoes, like the grizzled old woman in Chile who badgered me over the gulf war. I'll never forget these two, who helped refocus my priorities in life and and made me remember that the world and it's people are really one and can be in harmony if we all work at it. We four people were, for that 40 minutes, together. I don't know their names, I have no idea what their life has in store for them, but I feel very confident that given half a chance, they'll be fine and will raise their children to be good, productive individuals in this world.
I'll never forget them.